


Wrath of the Heart

by ThePineCat



Series: Voidwalker Rising [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Nightmares, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePineCat/pseuds/ThePineCat
Summary: Finally faced with the one who caused her to be shunned, a warlock finds that friends are often disguised as adversaries.





	Wrath of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place well before the events of D1.
> 
> Reading the rest of the series would be immensely helpful, but not necessary for understanding.

Several months had passed, and while the tension hadn’t gotten worse, it certainly hadn’t become better. Civilians still glared. Other guardians were hostile. Even Andal would avoid her at all costs.

Marjorle Thiv was not expecting anything different when she went down to the marketplace. People would avoid her like the plague, and she could do nothing to change that; she’d tried already, thank you very much. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with the crowds. Once they realized who she was, the hordes of people cleared out pretty quick.

All because of a single miscommunication with a Reef Corsair whom Marjorle had never even met. Yet, the deaths of nine guardians was placed on her head, simply because of her origins. Apparently wearing the orchid and gold of the vestian outpost meant complete loyalty to the Queen; even if the Reef-themed robes were all the warlock had. Besides, they were very nice robes and she was rather fond of them. The city folk already knew who she was— there would be no point in trying to hide it. Might as well be proud.

Marjorle liked to think that she’d tear apart this “Petra” if she ever met her. She wouldn’t be treated the way she was if it wasn’t for the corsair’s actions. At the very least she deserved to be screamed at.

As the warlock strolled down the streets, she imagined how such a conversation would go, how satisfying it would be to finally pass off the blame to someone else.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice, accented and regal, whispered from the shadows. Marjorle kept walking, assuming that they weren’t speaking to her. Nobody ever did.

“You! The one with the purple robes!” Now that, that could be her. Cautiously, the warlock paused, slowly turning to look behind her. From the darkness of a small alleyway, an awoken woman emerged, clad in an almost skin-tight bodysuit with armored shoulders. Marjorle eyed her with suspicion.

“What do you want?”

“You’re from the Reef, right? Please, tell me what’s happened there.” The stranger was desperate, her single icey eye widened in hope.

“I’m not of the Reef. I’m a guardian.” Marjorle replied coldly, not caring about how the stranger’s face fell.

“But you were there! Surely you know something?”

“Can’t you just go there yourself?” At that, the women froze, her breath hitching.

“No… no I cannot.”

“Why,” Marjorle’s brows knit together in confusion. Was this woman somehow banned from the Reef? If so, what could she have done to warrant such…

“You!” Void light whispered at her fingertips as the warlock stalked forward, forcing the other woman away until her back hit the wall.

“Petra Venj, is it? The Corsair who caused the deaths of nine Guardians?” Slowly, the woman nodded.

“Do you have any idea what you have wrought?” Marjorle seethed, raising a void-coated hand to strike. But she was stopped. In the blink of an eye Petra had lunged forward to bring a knife to the warlock’s throat.

“I suggest you back away.” As much as it grated against her very will, Marjorle lowered her hand in defeat. With a smirk, the other woman took the blade away and sheathed it at her hip.

“There,” Petra dusted off her hands, “now with that taken care of, we can speak like civil adults. Right?” Scorn edged her voice, which did nothing to cool the warlock’s temper.

“All of that, and yet you still want to talk. Why?”

“My Queen chose to help you. I want to figure out why.”

“And how does this benefit me? You’re on thin ice, Venj.”

“Surely you’re curious about the Awoken? Let’s say I’ll answer any questions you have.” Now that piqued her interest. It must’ve shown on her face, for Petra smiled victoriously.

“Good. Now follow me.” When Marjorle didn’t follow, the Corsair turned back to face her.

“I expect this will take awhile. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not stand in the street all day.”

“Fair enough. Lead the way.”

As they walked, Marjorle couldn’t help but notice a few details about the other woman. Petra was a few inches shorter, but walked as if she were ten feet tall, confident with a certain swagger in the swaying of her hips. And wow her armor was tight, the material clinging to her shapely legs, although much of it was concealed by the sash around her waist.

 

Once entering the room, Marjorle immediately had her ghost transmat her boots off. Petra gave her an odd look.

“What? Shoes are uncomfortable.” For added effect, she wiggled her toes.

“That’s not… Nevermind.”

“Oh, wait. I see what it is.” After a quick exchange through their link, the warlock’s ghost appeared at her shoulder.

“This is Spectre. My ghost.”

Petra seemed to be in awe of him, cautiously stepping forward, hands twitching in curiosity.

“I’ve never actually seen one up close. How does it work?”

“It can understand you, by the way.” Spectre stated indignantly, spines spinning in irritation.

“Apologies. I don’t exactly know much about how the light works.” Petra wrung her hands together, nervous. “So what do you do, Spectre?”

“In simple terms, I am the link between my guardian and the Traveler’s light.” He preened, proud of his role as well as the attention that he was getting; Petra was absolutely captivated by the ghost.

“Ahem. Perhaps we should sit?” Marjorle, interrupted, motioning towards the couch. The other awoken nodded and strode across the room, settling straight-backed on the plush furniture.

“Please. Tell me everything.”

“Everything? It’s a bit of long story.”

“I don’t mind.”

So Marjorle launched into her tale, starting from her rebirth in a ship floating aimlessly in the deep depths of the Reef. How she was found and taken to the Queen, and the reveal of her identity; Marjorle Thiv of the Amethyst station.

“Amethyst?” Petra’s voice was chock full of emotion.

“Yes. I had died in the Raze.” A pause, as she considered the raw sadness in the other’s voice, “But that means something to you, doesn’t it?”

“I grew up at Amethyst. Me and my sisters. All of them… they’re all gone.” Petra’s hands shook, voice growing quiet as waves of sorrow washed through her. “But you came back. Why you?”

“I don’t know why the traveler chose me. I was only a simple botanist.” Several moments passed in which both women were silent, too caught up in their thoughts to sustain a conversation. Marjorle found it hard to tear her eyes away from the other awoken; her downcast face was serene, a unique beauty in the sadness of her features.

“Enough of this. Continue on with your story.” Petra broke the tense silence with a shake of her head. With a nod, the warlock began where she left off, describing the cold welcome she had received from the Vanguard. Guilt weighed heavily over Petra; it was her actions that had made the warlock an outcast. Fortunately, Marjorle was too caught up in her own bitterness to notice the change on Petra’s face.

Marjorle’s voice remained sour until she finally reached an event that made her happy; how she threw her first nova bomb and was confirmed to be a warlock. Of course, she’d also met Matthias that same day, and he was one of the few friendly faces she’d seen. Still, taking that first step towards mastering her light was special and had a permanent place in her heart.

Truly, it was only a first step. Since that day, Marjorle had improved immensely. Her nova bombs now took the form of a shattering missile and her connection to the void had strengthened. Not only that, but the warlock learned how to wield solar light in the form of flaming wings and sun-fire blades.

Still, few ever talked to her. Sure, she had Ikora and Matthias, but they were mentors more than friends. Cayde-6 was good company, but he hardly ever stayed around the tower. All she had was Spectre.

“Can I see it? Your light?” Broken out of her introspection, Marjorle gazed at Petra confusedly. Nobody ever cared enough about her abilities.

“Most of it would destroy this very room. But I’ll try to tone it down.” In a motion that was as natural as breathing, the warlock brought the void to her hand, holding it out for the other woman to observe. Petra’s eye was wide as she stared at the shifting tendrils of void. Around her, the air seemed to grow thin and frosty, which only fed into her curiosity.

“Can I touch it?” Her hand rose nervously, fingers splayed toward the indigo light. As she inched closer, the void in the warlock's palm dissipated until only a weak layer of purple coated her skin. Marjorle gave her a nod to go ahead. Gently, Petra’s fingertips brushed against her own.

“It’s… cold.”

“Why would it be anything else? It’s the void.” Marjorle retorted, slowly beginning to amp up the intensity of her light. Wisps of shadow wavered in her palm, beginning to creep up the other woman’s fingers in an enticing dance. Entranced, Petra moved her hand, snorting as the mist scattered before resuming its persistent crawl. Admittedly, her amusement was rather endearing. Marjorle admired the way her eye brightened and the corners of her lips lifted up into a tiny smile.

“Having fun?” She teased, waving away the void with a simple flick of the wrist. Snapped out of her trance, Petra looked up sheepishly, nodding in reply to the warlock’s query.

“Would you like to see solar as well?” Petra’s smile widened into a grin, just as she predicted it would. It was infectious, this pleasant and cheery attitude. Even Marjorle had a smirk on her face as she brought a flame to her hand. Almost immediately, Petra reached out to touch it.

“This is actual fire, you know.” As quickly as it had approached, the Corsair’s hand retreated, wary of the snapping licks of heat. To say the least, it was entertaining to see her reactions. Marjorle had never witnessed a mortal interact with the light, let alone the response of someone who had never seen it before.

Although Petra’s fascination with her light likely wasn’t related to her— instead caused by the sheer newness of Light— it was refreshing. Pleasant, even.

“Here,” Marjorle shifted her light into something less dangerous; all-consuming flame softening into a warm golden glow of hearth fire. “Now you can touch it.”

Petra’s hand hovered over her own, the Corsair sighing as gentle heat soaked into her skin. The energy emanating from the warlock’s hand had a pull; it was not the void’s earnest desire, but a promise of vitality and tenderness. She wanted more of it, to be closer to this source of nearly addicting power. It was only a natural progression for Petra to settle her hand on the warlock’s, palm-to-palm. For a split second, Marjorle was spooked, but a single glance at the other woman’s face erased her sudden fears. Sheer bliss had overcome Petra; her eye was closed, brows relaxed and lips turned upwards in an easy smile.

“The light can do many things. It is more than a weapon or a tool.” Marjorle spoke softly, not wanting to interrupt the serenity of the moment.

“It is amazing.” Petra breathed, opening her eye to gaze at Marjorle with genuine appreciation— something the warlock had never experienced before. It filled her with a giddy happiness, lifting the burden of loneliness from her shoulders. Their eyes met, ice staring into malachite as their fingers threaded together. One of them gave a gentle squeeze— Marjorle wasn’t sure who, caught up in the moment as she was.

“I really hate to interrupt, but,” Marjorle’s head whipped around to glare at her ghost, light extinguishing from her palm. She raised a single brow, challenging him to continue.

“Perhaps you should see what that’s about.” Petra suggested, drawing back her hand. Marjorle missed its presence.

“Fine.” The moment was over, anyways.

“It’s Ikora. She’s got a mission for you and wants you to head out immediately.” A groan tore its way from her throat at the thought of leaving. Spectre gave her an apologetic twirl before transmatting her boots back on, signaling that it was time to go.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to leave.” Abruptly, the warlock stood and stalked towards the door.

“Will I see you again?” Petra called. Marjorle froze at the sound of her voice, the disappointment in the other woman’s tone tugging at her chest.

“Yes.”

 

While on her way to the vanguard hall, the warlock was fuming. This mission had better be important, for it had disrupted a moment that could have been so much more.

Yet, Marjorle found herself filled with doubt. Why did she care so much about being separated from Petra? After all, it was Petra’s actions that had made the warlock an outcast. She’d had so much hate in her heart for the guardian-killer, so much pent up aggression and blame. But now… she couldn’t find it in herself to feel that same burning animosity. How could she, when Petra was the first person to express a genuine interest in her? When there existed a natural pull between them?

Frustrated, Marjorle let out a growl. Sparks of void shot from her fingertips. Harmlessly they bounced off the walls before dispelling into the air. Still, it felt good. Emotions were too confusing. Time was needed to sort through them.

Marjorle hoped that her mission involved shooting lots of fallen. It would help.

  


For nearly a week’s time she was absent from the tower. She’d been sent to investigate a distress beacon put out by a group of pilgrims on their way to the city. Why the vanguard didn’t send a titan or a hunter, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps they knew she had been consorting with the Queen’s Emissary; or Zavala wanted to test her loyalty yet again. Of course, the more logical part of her brain insisted that Ikora had chosen her for a reason. Maybe the warlock vanguard had wanted Marjorle to have some friendly faces in the tower, which would certainly happen if she saved a group of civilians. As if that would help.

Either way, the entire journey was miserable. Turned out that the source of “distress” was just a small pack of Eliksni that had taken action in the night. There’d been a scuffle and the fallen were repelled, but the people were so nervous about another attack that they called for help. Apparently they were still being trailed by the fallen. When Marjorle had arrived at the scene, there were no injuries besides a scraped knee and a serious lack of bravery. As for the oh-so-scary Eliksni, it had taken her mere moments to locate and wipe them out. It was a pitiful interaction; a timid pack of ether-starved dregs and vandals had no chance against a guardian of her caliber. Even a fresh-res could have taken them.

To make things worse, the roamers begged her to stay; and the vanguard agreed. Abandoning them was out of the question; Zavala would undoubtedly cast her out if she did that. So Marjorle was forced to trudge along with them through rain and muck. She would have loaded them up into her ship if it wasn’t so tiny; excluding the cockpit, there was only room for a narrow bed and a storage trunk. Taking multiple trips could have worked, but the group was large and they refused to be left without a guard.

Progress was slow, but finally, finally, they reached the last city. As soon as they were inside the walls, she confirmed with the vanguard and made a hasty retreat to her rooms. Her first priority was a hot shower, a warm meal, and a nice long nap. She’d need new boots as well; her current ones were weathered down, the soles worn thin with holes in the seams, as well as absolutely filthy. But those could wait.

With a bellyful of savory foods, skin lathered smooth and clean, Marjorle snuggled into her bed. Soft warmth encased her body in the form of a thick blanket, her head supported by several cozy pillows. It was a relief, to finally be able to rest somewhere that wasn’t cold and wet. Letting out a final contented sigh, the warlock drifted off into an easy sleep.

 

What was intended to be a short, hour-long nap resulted in Marjorle sleeping through the rest of the day and well into the night. When she finally awoke, the sun had begun its slow climb up the sky. This was much earlier than she usually started her day, but it wasn’t as if she needed anymore sleep.

With a sigh, the warlock turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Wips of her dreams still weaved through the haze of her thoughts, floating just out of her reach. All she could recall was another woman, her voice accented and regal, whispering to her from the shadows. It almost reminded her of—

Petra! Of course, now that she was back she could finally see the Corsair again. However, it was hardly even dawn, far too early for a visit. But surely Petra had missed her as well? Perhaps she wouldn’t mind. What if she’d even forgotten the warlock, or decided that she was a terrible person for not contacting her sooner? Anxiety bubbled up inside, making her stomach turn in uncomfortable knots.

Eventually, she made a choice. Petra was a soldier, and as such was surely used to waking at an early hour. She was probably already awake, so it’d be fine to visit.

With that settled, Marjorle hopped out of bed and quickly threw on what little civilian clothing she had; simple jeans, a plum-toned sweater, and a pair of plain black boots. After putting her hair up, she was out the door in record time.

 

Nervously, Marjorle tugged at the barely too-short sleeves of her sweater. Ahead of her stood the door to her destination. Yet, she couldn’t find the courage to knock. At least, not at first; it took several internal pep-talks for her to work up the bravery. As she lifted her hand, a scream split the air. In fact, it almost sounded like—

Petra! Marjorle pounded on the door, calling out the woman’s name. There was no reply. Overcome with fear, the warlock tried to open the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn.

“Spec, can you—“

“Already on it.” The ghost materialized and quickly went to work on the lock. Within seconds an audible click could be heard and she threw open the door, hands alight with void. Beside her, Spectre did a quick scan of the rooms, trying to find the cause of distress.

“She’s alone. There’s nobody else here.” He stated quietly, shell spinning in confusion.

“We should still be careful. Where is she?” There could be any number of hidden dangers that avoided detection.

“Hallway. First door on the left.” After that, her ghost faded away. Just to be safe. Still armed with her light, Marjorle crept towards the indicated room as quietly as she could, although her stealth certainly left something to be desired. Fortunately, this door was not locked, and opened easily on smooth hinges.

“I’m sorry!!” In her bed, Petra thrashed as she shrieked the words. Pillows were thrown about the room, her body tangled in a purple blanket. No longer worried about volume, Marjorle hurried to the woman’s side.

“Petra?” She reached out to gently grasp her shoulder, which was cold and clammy to the touch.

“Please! I didn’t mean to!” Despite the intensity of the horror in her voice, Petra was still asleep. The threat was in her own mind, and the only thing that Marjorle could do to help was to wake her up.

“Petra.” A single shake of her shoulder. Nothing happened. “Petra!” Marjorle jostled both shoulders with increasing frenzy, concern building up in her gut.

“Let me go!” Stunned, the warlock pulled back, only to realize that Petra wasn’t speaking to her, but to whatever horror occupied her dreams.

“Wake up!” Still nothing. Desperately, Marjorle infused her hands with revitalizing solar light and laid them on the slumbering woman’s arms.

Petra awoke with a gasp, chest heaving and eye blown wide. Tears gathered on her cheek, which she wiped away with a shaking hand.

“Are you okay?” Marjorle spoke softly, hoping not to spook her. Yet, Petra didn’t respond. Her gaze was directed on a point in the distance, unfocused and glazed with unshed tears. The lack of any emotion or thought on her face was even more concerning than the choking convulsions of her breath.

“I’m sorry,” she wiped her face, eye clearing. “The nightmares keep getting worse.”

“Petra…” Worry clenched at Marjorle’s chest. Hearing the terror in the other’s voice, seeing the pain in her eye, it hurt. And she wanted to make it better. With her arms glowing with light, the warlock brought her close in a comforting embrace. Initially Petra stiffened, but the soothing warmth of solar light soon set in and she relaxed into her hold, resting her head on the warlock’s shoulder. After a few moments, Petra drew away.

“Why don’t you hate me?”

“What do you mean? Why would I hate you?” Marjorle was confused, but continued to hold the other woman at arm’s length, thumbs rubbing soothing circles of light into her shoulders.

“No,” Petra shrugged her grip off, “I have made you an outcast because of what I did. You should be furious.”

“I was, at first.” Marjorle admitted, reaching to gently grasp her hands. “Then I actually met you. And I realized— blaming you for everyone else’s reactions was idiotic.” Silence filled the air. “Besides, you’ve been more of a friend than any of them.”

“But I’m a murderer.”

“But it’s not your fault. How could you have known that those guardians would have been there?”

“I am still the one who ordered the attack that ended their lives. Who else is there to blame?”

“Hey,” she squeezed her hands, locking gazes with the other woman, “the fact that you feel such guilt shows that you are a worthy person.”

Petra sighed, closing her eye and focusing on the warmth of the warlock’s touch. Being able to finally talk to someone about everything was great, but it also brought a lot of repressed emotions to light; nearly too much to handle.

“I just wish I could go home and things could go back to normal.”

Taking a moment to absorb the information, Marjorle tried to think of something to make her feel better. She needed a distraction, that much was clear, but how to go about it? In search of an idea, she cast her eyes around the room, scanning the nearly-bare shelves. Finally, her gaze settled on an item of interest.

“Hey, what’s that?” In the far corner of the room, a plum-colored compound bow rested against the wall.

“A bow.” Was Petra’s response.

“I know what it is. But why is it here?”

“It’s my bow.” When Marjorle looked at her, earnestly waiting for more, the Corsair cracked a small smile. Gracefully, she retrieved the weapon from the wall and brought it back to the warlock.

“Many of the awoken are trained in archery. Particularly those employed as a Corsair.”

“That’s odd. I don’t remember seeing any bows back at the Vestian outpost.” Petra chuckled at her observation.

“They aren’t exactly the best option for combat on the Reef. Most places aren’t big enough for a full draw.” To demonstrate, Petra nocked an imaginary arrow and pulled the string taut back to her cheek before allowing it to slowly relax.

“So why bother with them at all?”

“Bows are a cultural tradition for us. Since our creation, they’ve been a staple for both combat and ceremonial reasons. Besides,” she winked, “the awoken occupy more than just the Reef.”

“Wait, what? Where else do they live?” If it hadn’t been before, Marjorle’s interest was certainly peaked now. Nobody had ever mentioned anything about the awoken settling anywhere but Earth or the Reef. But then again, nobody really knew where they’d come from.

“That, I cannot say. There are some secrets that I am duty-bound to keep.” Petra seemed remorseful, although she remained steadfast in her loyalty to the Queen; there’d be no wringing of truths from her. Marjorle would have take what she could get.

“Can I…?” As she trailed off, her hand extended towards the bow. Petra gave her a soft smile and passed it to the warlock. In her hands, it felt surprisingly light, yet durable. Testing the string, she found that it wasn’t as stiff as she’d thought. Finally, she gripped it properly and brought up in front of her; back straightened and shoulders relaxed. It felt awkward.

“Here, allow me,” Petra nudged her torso until her pose was satisfactory. Now, holding the bow felt good, right.

“Is there any way you could show me how to shoot one of these?” Marjorle’s asked, voice tentative with gathered hope. She lowered the bow and moved to give it back, but Petra stopped her.

“If you can find a decent shooting range, I’ll teach you all I can.” That, she could do. There were plenty of places like that around the city; mostly for civilian use, but the warlock was confident she could find a nice private range for the two of them.

“Then it’s a deal.”

  


Throughout the next several months, the nightmares kept coming. Every time, Marjorle would soothe the terrors away with a sweep of healing solar light. Afterwards, they’d go shooting, and Petra would let out all of her anger through the arrows that she loosed. An impressive sight, the muscles in her back flexing as she pulled on the string, each arrow hitting its mark exactly. Marjorle couldn’t help but find it admirable, if that was even the right word. They’d grown closer, and the warlock was having a hard time defining her feelings. One morning she’d be holding Petra in her arms as the woman cried, and the next they’d hardly have any contact. It was baffling, to say the least.

Yet, she kept coming back. Petra was her only friend (besides her ghost) in this lonely tower, so who could blame her? Besides, the warlock enjoyed her company. Even to the extent of looking forward to their archery sessions, despite the fact that she was a terrible shot. Normally, Marjorle would give up on anything that she wasn’t good at. But Petra brought out a better side of her; she was willing to work for improvement instead of just relying on her natural skill as she so often did. Bit by bit, her accuracy improved— as did their relationship.

 

After a particularly harrowing dream, the two decided that drinking would help calm the aftershocks. In hindsight, this was a terrible plan, but at least they learned something from it. Many things, in fact.

Turns out that alcohol makes for loose lips, and when combined with their heightened emotions, secrets were spilled.

Marjorle was the first to share; her struggle with loneliness coming to light. Nobody talked to her, nobody wanted her, nobody would even look at her. She’d like to say that it was fine, she didn’t need anyone else. But deep down, it hurt. It hurt to know that no matter what she didn’t belong. Not here, not in the Reef, not anywhere. Of course, Petra’s response had been to wrap her arms around the warlock and promise to never leave her side. (That was a lie. Marjorle knew that she wanted to return home more than anything).

Petra was overwhelmingly talkative; she spoke of anything and everything. But it all boiled down to one subject; the Reef. Her home. She’d describe the arching ivory towers nestled in mountains of shimmering amethyst; a land that seemed so fantastical yet so real because of the yearning in the Corsair’s voice. A city, she said, hidden far beyond the reaches of any outsider— including Marjorle. There were others, a variety of other realms that housed the awoken and their secrets.

Yet, what Petra seemed to revere the most was not a place, or a thing, but a person. Fair-haired and regal, beautiful but cold, a true diamond in the rough of the ragged Reef. Sheer infatuation, it seemed, that Petra had for this woman. Marjorle was surprised to find that she was disappointed by the fact; as if Petra’s romantic life had any impact on her. Which it didn’t.

What they eventually became couldn’t be called sentimental. Two people drawn together out of sheer loneliness wasn’t poetic. Neither was their first kiss; sloppy and fueled by drunken desires. They’d nearly fallen into bed together that night, but Marjorle had been sober enough to stop what would have been a mistake.

Of course, it ultimately still happened. At least they weren’t drunk. There was no love in their lovemaking, no tender caresses or whispered fantasies. Stress relief, that’s all it was. Just two women who were alone in the world, seeking to fulfill their wants and needs. Never did they talk about what they were, for there was nothing to discuss. They were friends, nothing more. Sure, there were certain benefits involved, but there were no limitations that were set in stone. It was understood that what they did had no strings attached, and that they were free to see other people. Although, it wasn’t like they had anyone else. That’s why they became involved in the first place.

Petra became an all-too common part of her routine. Most days, they’d wake in the same bed. When she came back from missions, Petra was the first (and perhaps the only) person she sought out. Being able to return to such natural camaraderie seemed like both a relief and a blessing. Conversation between them was easy; words flowed smoothly no matter the topic.

They’d trade stories, eager to hear each other’s tales. Although, not having lived as long, Marjorle had fewer to share. Still, it was a way for them to understand each other better, something that the warlock couldn’t take for granted.

She learned that Petra had been raised by techeuns; as such, she was taught some of their ways. Thus, her dreams were all the more vivid, her nightmares that much more terrifying. If not for the Raze, she surely would have become one of them. Instead, Petra chose the combative path of a Corsair, to fuel her desire to avenge those who had fallen. This, Marjorle understood more than anything. Vengeance was an all too familiar feeling for the warlock. She’d spent almost the entirety of her new life holding on to the idea of revenge. Funny how that ended once she met Petra, whose disposition was so very similar to her own.

Yet, for all of their likeness, they had disparaging viewpoints; particularly when it came to the traveler. Despite Petra’s utter fascination with it, she was wary of the light, suspicious of the motives of the source itself. Too many coincidences, she’d say, for the traveler and the arrival of the Darkness to be unrelated. On the other hand, Marjorle was much more open. Whether or not the traveler’s intentions were just, she trusted in it. There just wasn’t enough evidence to the contrary for the warlock to betray all she’d ever known. Without the light, she wouldn’t be alive. That had to count for something. Yet, she refused to be blind. If the time came to turn her back on the traveler, than she’d willingly do so. That’s just who she was— preferring logic over sightless following. Reasoning would win out over faith every single time. At least, it would in her mind.

Not to say that she was cold-hearted beast; her relationship with Petra disproves that. In fact, Marjorle could be too emotional at times. Usually it was a lapse caused by intense anger or fear, but she experienced the softer side of feelings as well. Just not as often. She’s more likely to fight something than cry over it. Solutions to her problems usually involved either diplomacy or the cold destruction of her light.

But there was a dilemma that couldn’t be fixed with either one. Someday, Petra would return home to the Reef, to her Queen. Leaving Marjorle to be alone; just as she was before.

And there was nothing that the warlock could do about it, except savor the time that they had left.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
